Lying Together by Gaynor Arnold Page B

that’s gone west then,’ he said crossly. ‘There was nothing on the spike.’
    â€˜Sorry, Mr Reeves,’ I said. ‘I must have forgot.’
    â€˜We can’t afford “forgetting” – now there’s a war on. I’m surprised at you, Elsie.’
    â€˜It won’t happen again, Mr Reeves.’ I was so heart-stricken, I thought I might break down and cry in front of him, but I managed to turn away and take a big breath. Miss Jennings was right. I could never mean anything to a man like Jack. He’d been kind, but nothing had happened between us in spite of the low light and the soft, inviting bed. He’d drunk his cocoa and answered my questions and showed a kind interest in my skin condition. That’s how he’d been brought up. But he’d probably forgotten me the minute he went back to his book, as soon as the taste of cocoa had faded from his tongue.
    Then as I turned to go past the till, I saw something propped up there. It was a small parcel, wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper. Written on the front was ‘For the Waitress with the Cocoa’. I couldn’t think who else it could be from, but I hardly dared to hope. I unwrapped it carefully. It was a man’s spotted scarf. Fine silk, the sort Miss Jennings used to say could be pulled through a wedding ring. There was something else, too – a note on a piece of hotel paper. Neat, dark writing: I owe you for a charming evening and I always like to pay my debts. This scarf is a bit grand for life down on the farm. Have it please, with my regards, Jack Thompson. P.S. I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name.

MOUTH
    S he’s always mouthing off at me. I call her The Mouth. In my mind, that is. I call her The Mouth in my mind. To her face I say Yes. Thank you. Mother.
    When I was little she’d yank my hair back in a rubber band. Give me a ponytail so high it seemed to grow out of the top of my head. So tight it would never come undone. Go and Play , she’d say. And don’t get dirty . I’d go off in my white socks and hand-knitted cardigan to stand by the fence and watch the others.
    Who did you play with? she’d say when I came back. What did you play? Were those Bates boys out there? They didn’t give you any of that bubblegum, did they? Let me see your hands. I’d have the gum in my knickers, just inside the elastic. I’d chew it in bed after I’d said my prayers. ‘God bless Mummy … God bless Daddy …’ I’d slip my hand down to the side of the wooden bed and pull it off, hard and cold and shiny, but still sweet.
    I don’t know why you don’t play with Sandra Smith. My mother liked Sandra. My mother liked me to go to tea with Sandra. They had proper tea with serviettes. Mr Smith had an office job and a typewriter in the bay window where he did Invoices. Sometimes Sandra and I played at Invoices. Otherwise Sandra’s house was boring.
    When it rained I’d stay in and read. Enid Blyton, The Famous Five. Sometimes I’d go through the bookcase in the front room. Dreary titles: Silas Marner ; Bleak House ; Kenilworth . I tried A Christmas Carol . It started: ‘Marley was dead.’ I didn’t read any more. My mother would look over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t reading comics . I want you reading proper books. What about Black Beauty ?
    I didn’t like horses.
    I used to hear her talking. Geraldine has a lot of Potential. I hated the name Geraldine. The Bates boys called me Gerry. My dad never called me anything, except ‘chicken’. When he spoke. Which wasn’t that often.
    Geraldine is a natural dancer, she’d say. She took me for private lessons with Miss Standish in a big house three bus stops away. Now, mind you hold your head up! Don’t look at your feet! I want to be proud of you.
    Elocution, too. Mr Moon with a moustache and an old mother, making me recite ‘The